Dancing to Denerim
by ShadesOfMauve
Summary: Elisandre Cousland schools Alistair in some of the basics of kingship. Entirely fluff.


The road north to Soldier's Peak and Denerim was a long one, which Alistair did not mind at all. They'd left the Arl's party behind their first day out. With their smaller group and faster rate of travel, Elisandre hoped to investigate soldier's peak before rejoining the Arl at the capital.

_Maybe I'll be eaten by ghosts_, Alistair thought. _Then I'd escape this king nonsense_.  
Morrigan wasn't impressed with the King-Alistair idea either, and she said as much as they walked.

"Tis foolishness! Alistair would make a terrible king."

Elisandre smiled, confident. "He'll learn."

Alistair sighed. "Well, thanks. Now you've put me in a rrreally awkward position."

"How so?"

"Isn't it obvious? I've either got to go against my own best interests, or _agree with Morrigan_. I can't tell which one's worse. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Ouch!"

The two women rolled their eyes in synch.

"Okay, THAT was creepy."

Elisandre grinned.

"I know, I've decided!"

Morrigan's voice was sharp. "You've decided WHAT, pray tell?"

"The only way out of this problem. I've decided...not to choose. Yes. If I'm firmly indecisive I don't have to agree with either of you."

"I'm so. very. proud." Morrigan stalked off.

...but Elisandre was chuckling, and linking her arm through his, so he didn't really care what the witch thought. They talked of what they might find at Soldier's Peak, of the foods they missed after so long on the road, of their favorite stories as children. Sometimes they walked in companionable silence. For awhile they played fetch with Lulu, a game the warhound was usually too dignified to indulge in. Elisandre would throw a stick far ahead of them, and the dog would run to catch it in mid-air — and then _wait_ for them to catch up instead of bringing it back. Lulu was too clever to run twice the distance he had to. There was no more talk of kings or politics until well after they'd set up camp.

Elisandre had either persuaded or bullied someone in the arl's household to pack them a few luxuries, and the air around the campfire was more relaxed than it had been since Orzammar. She stretched out, cat-like, propped up on one shoulder, and swirled the wine in her cup. The firelight brought out sparks in her dark auburn hair and gilded the lines of muscle in her long legs. Her face was in sharp profile, showing off the strong line of her jaw, the slight arch of her nose as she sniffed appreciatively at the wine. Alistair made no secret of his admiration. Maybe it was the wine, but after the way he'd been teased by Oghren and Zevran — even by _Wynne_! — there hardly seemed a point in hiding.

"Mmmm, but I've missed this," Elisandre murmured. "I think that's what I took most for granted: really fine food. I don't mind the walking, and I can stand sleeping on the hard ground. Darkspawn blood washes off _eventually_. But I never realized I was such a gourmand until I had to subsist on field rations for months at a time." She grinned at him. "Not to mention _your_ cooking."

Alistair smiled, too riveted by the view to rise to the bait.

Elisandre continued her musing, voice pitched only for him. "The wine isn't the only thing I cadged from Arl Eamon's stock, by-the-by, but," her voice became playfully pouty, "I hid the Brie d'Orlais in my tent because I didn't want to share. If you're a very, very _good_ ex-almost-templar-warden-prince, maybe I'll make an exception for you."

"Now you have my full attention." As if there had ever been any doubt. He thought he heard Wynne snicker from the other side of the fire, but he ignored her. Nothing could take his mind from his beautiful lover, relaxed and decadent in the firelight. _This is how you are supposed to be_, he thought. _Full of laughter. Tension and worry vanished._

"You know," Elisandre mused, "There are up-sides to this whole king-business I don't think you've even considered. All the fine wines or cheeses you want. Fewer limits on importation of Antivan Tallegio." She was watching him as she so often did when she teased, sidelong through her lashes, suppressed laughter dimpling one cheek. "New taxes to subsidize the Ferelden cheese industry, moving us beyond farmhouse cheddar to pungent washed-rinds and luscious triple-cremes..." she licked her lips sensuously, well aware of what it did to him, and the smile and laughter finally escaped her tight control.

_You can tease me all you want, lady, if it keeps your smile filled with that much joy_. "Ah, this is why it's dangerous to love! You know my weakness! I'll have to have Zevran kill you." He sighed then, serious. "Elisandre, you _know_ I can't be king."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "What exactly do you think a king does that you cannot?"

"Well, be kingly, for one."

While they were talking Morrigan had deigned to approach the common fire. She snorted. "He has a point."

Elisandre shot her a quelling glance. "Looking regal is ninety percent good posture. You have excellent posture. You'll have to come up with something else."

"I better have good posture. It was part of Templar training. You think you young noble women have it tough, walking around with books on your heads, but you don't know the half of it."

"Walking? Dear, past the age of ten you're expected to be able to _dance_."

"That's it! Dancing! It happens at royal functions. In front of everyone. I can't do it."

"What? What do you mean you can't dance? Surely you must have sometime!"

"The chantry sisters? Not so big on frolicking of any kind. I think I last danced before Isolde sent me away, at a festival in Redcliffe...so I must have been, what, nine? Ten?"

"Well," Elisandre set her cup down and stood up, "Just because you haven't doesn't mean you can't."

He backed away, hands up protectively. "No, no, I'm not a creature of grace. All knees. Two left feet. Really!"

She ducked inside his arms, laughing. "Methinks he doth protest too much. I've seen you fight, remember? You don't lack grace, and I would have noticed two left feet or an overabundance of knees. Now," she grabbed his right hand and placed it at her waist, then clasped his left with her right, "If you're dancing with the ancient dame Arlessa of such-and-such, you do this," and she stepped slowly, gingerly towards his left side, giving enough pressure to encourage him to spin with her, ever so slowly. "And if you're dancing with, say, me, it's probably like this" and she leaned back, stepping more quickly, and he fell into the rhythm of the swing, whirling her around faster and faster, feeling her weight against his arm, her eyes sparkling up at him. Finally she leaned in and pulled him to a stop. "See? Simple."

"Except I'm really dizzy...and I'm fairly certain court dances involve more than spinning around."

"Well, that they do. For the dizziness, though, look at me."

His voice dropped to a lower register. "Elisandre, just your presence makes me dizzy. Looking at you is _not_ going to help."

She blushed. "I meant, if you focus on your partner's _face_, you don't notice the world spinning around. You get much less dizzy."

"And what if my partner isn't so lovely to look upon as you?"

She grimaced up at him. "Then you put on your big templar face and _deal_ with it. Do you have any inkling how many fat banns and pimpled youths I've had to dance with? You're a warrior. Be a bit courageous, here!" Her face relaxed into a sly smile that made his heart flip. "And you don't have to be too worried... usualy at court you dance with almost everybody, but the upside is you're not stuck with anyone horrible for too long."

Giving Elisandre a reason to stay in his arms was worth the indignity of a little dancing instruction. "So, I'm afraid to ask, but how do the rest of the, you know, _complicated_ bits work?"

Elisandre turned to look over her shoulder. "Wynne, Zev, could you help, please? Have you done this before?"

Zevran tossed his blond locks. "My lady, I have memorized the dances of eight countries, and the best way poison someone in the middle of them. This is nothing."

"Not reassuring." She turned back to Alistair. "It's really impossible to teach most of them without four people. Eight would be much better. Here, get yourselves in a circle, like so."

"It's a square."

"Pardon?"

"There are four of us. Corners. It's a square."

She scowled, prettily. "Squares don't turn very well. It's a circle."

Wynne straightened her robes. "It's been awhile since I've done this, and I always relied on a partner who showed me what to do. When women dance, they follow. Can you actually teach someone to lead?" Her voice was light, but her eyes betrayed a deeper meaning.

"Of course! You just have to_ follow assertively_. I used to help some of Highever's knights learn. You guide, and as your partner becomes more competent, you fade back."

"Hmmm." Wynne was eyeing Elisandre with great speculation, about what Alistair could not fathom. "You seem to have thought this through rather well."

Elisandre raised an eyebrow, but didn't respond. "Shall we begin? Take the hands of the people to either side of you. If at any point we do that and we're not arranged boy-girl-boy-girl, we have a problem."

"Nonsense, dear lady! We only have another creative solution."

"Zevran," Elisandre growled, "For the purposes of _dancing_ in _Ferelden_, we have a problem. Here, Alistair, put some tension in your arm, not to pull on mine, but so I can't flop it around — see? If your arm has some tension, you can feel when to move, and we can turn the whole circle." She did the same, demonstrating how fluidly they could move four people as one. "That's how you let your partner know where to go. Now, we'll start with simple moves. This is a ladies' chain — you both have a chance to have your hands on Wynne's waist, like I know you've been wanting."

She winked at Wynne, who looked utterly exasperated. The two women took hands in the center and pulled past each other, and Alistair watched how Zevran caught Elisandre around her waist and spun her back into their square. _Circle_. He followed a bit later with Wynne, gingerly. "Was that right?"

"Indeed," Elisandre grinned. "Now, we'll do it again to end back where we were." When she crossed to him she took his hand to help him bring her around, holding his other hand firmly to her waist, and she so clearly put him where he ought to be that he didn't feel tentative as he had with Wynne. "Now, put your left hand in the center, and hold the wrist of the person in front of you, like so. It's called a star, and it spins like the circle..."

Elisandre walked them through a mind boggling assortment of moves, all of which seemed to involve spinning and circles. Finally she called for Leliana to play a reel, and they put them together in a dance, Elisandre shouting out instruction as they moved. It was remarkable how all the seemingly disconnected moves fit together, flowing seamlessly into long patterns that had him dancing with first Wynne, then Elisandre, and even with Zevran, who insisted on batting his eyelashes at him. The force of one turn propelled him into the next, and the strong rhythm of Leliana's tune told them when to move to the next. He hardly realized when Elisandre's strong guidance faded to mere suggestion, then disappeared altogether.

Finally Leliana broke their pattern, and a good thing too; it turned out this kind of dancing was a lot like exercise, and they'd already been walking all day. "Enough!" cried the Orlesian. "Your devoted bard needs something slower to rest her poor fingers. A waltz, perhaps?" She began plucking out a gentle melody. "You should like learning this part, Alistair," she smirked.

Elisandre chuckled and stepped closer to him than the previous, energetic dance had called for. Then she froze for a moment, head turned back to Leliana, mouth open in pleased surprise. "Is this _Southwind_?"

The bard was obviously pleased. "Yes! I am so glad you know it. It is suitable for this, is it not?"

"Thank you, yes."

Elisandre smiled up at Alistair. "I've always loved this tune. She leaned into him and started to sway, eyes half-closed, murmuring instructions about counts of three. The sweet melody lifted them and he learned quickly. By the time the fire died down, he thought maybe he _could_ be king, if only it meant nothing but waltzing with his beautiful lady, forever, his cheek resting on her shining hair.


End file.
